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Software Testing: A Craftsman’s Approach, 4th Edition Chapter 2 Examples
 About Pseudo-code

• Language neutral
• Supports both procedural and
object-oriented code
• Easy to “translate” into your
favorite programming language

Software Testing: A Craftsman’s Approach, 4th Edition Chapter 2 Examples

 Examples

• Triangle problem
• NextDate
• Commission problem
• Simple ATM system
• Currency converter
• Windshield Wiper controller
• Garage door controller

Software Testing: A Craftsman’s Approach, 4th Edition Chapter 2 Examples

 Triangle Problem
Simple version: The triangle program accepts three integers, a, b, and c, as input.
These are taken to be sides of a triangle. The output of the program is the type of
triangle determined by the three sides: Equilateral, Isosceles, Scalene, or Not A
Triangle.
Improved version: “Simple version” plus better definition of inputs:
The integers a, b, and c must satisfy the following conditions:
c1. 1 ≤ a ≤ 200 c4. a<b+c
c2. 1 ≤ b ≤ 200 c5. b<a+c
c3. 1 ≤ c ≤ 200 c6. c<a+b
Final Version: “Improved version” plus better definition of outputs:
If an input value fails any of conditions c1, c2, or c3, the program notes this with an
output message, for example, “Value of b is not in the range of permitted values.” If
values of a, b, and c satisfy conditions c1, c2, and c3, one of four mutually exclusive
outputs is given:
1. If all three sides are equal, the program output is Equilateral.
2. If exactly one pair of sides is equal, the program output is
Isosceles.
3. If no pair of sides is equal, the program output is Scalene.
4. If any of conditions c4, c5, and c6 is not met, the program output
is NotATriangle.

Software Testing: A Craftsman’s Approach, 4th Edition Chapter 2 Examples

 Triangle Problem Discussion
Final Version: “Improved version” plus better definition of outputs:
If an input value fails any of conditions c1, c2, or c3, the program notes this
with an output message, for example, “Value of b is not in the range of
permitted values.” If values of a, b, and c satisfy conditions c1, c2, and c3,
one of four mutually exclusive outputs is given:
1. If all three sides are equal, the program output is Equilateral.
2. If exactly one pair of sides is equal, the program output is
Isosceles.
3. If no pair of sides is equal, the program output is Scalene.
4. If any of conditions c4, c5, and c6 is not met, the program output is
NotATriangle.

Problems persist! What output is expected for the input set (2, 2, 5)?
• Isosceles because a = b?
• NotATriangle because c > a+b?

Software Testing: A Craftsman’s Approach, 4th Edition Chapter 2 Examples

 Triangle Problem Exercise

Fix the “Final Version” (sometimes testers must also be

specifiers!)

The Really Final Version: “Improved version” plus better

definition of outputs.

Software Testing: A Craftsman’s Approach, 4th Edition Chapter 2 Examples

 NextDate

NextDate is a function of three variables: month, date, and year. It returns

the date of the day after the input date. The month, date, and year variables
have integer values subject to these conditions:
c1. 1 ≤ month ≤12
c2. 1 ≤ day ≤ 31
c3. 1812 ≤ year ≤ 2012

If any of conditions c1, c2, or c3 fails, NextDate produces an output

indicating the corresponding variable has an out-of-range value — for
example, “Value of month not in the range 1..12”. Because numerous invalid
day–month–year combinations exist, NextDate collapses these into one
message: “Invalid Input Date.”

Software Testing: A Craftsman’s Approach, 4th Edition Chapter 2 Examples

 The Commission Problem

A rifle salesperson in the former Arizona Territory sold rifle locks, stocks, and
barrels made by a gunsmith in Missouri. Locks cost $45, stocks cost $30,
and barrels cost $25. The salesperson had to sell at least one complete rifle
per month, and production limits were such that the most the salesperson
could sell in a month was 70 locks, 80 stocks, and 90 barrels. After each
town visit, the salesperson sent a telegram to the Missouri gunsmith with the
number of locks, stocks, and barrels sold in that town. At the end of a month,
the salesperson sent a very short telegram showing –1 locks sold. The
gunsmith then knew the sales for the month were complete and computed
the salesperson’s commission as follows: 10% on sales up to (and
including) $1000, 15% on the next $800, and 20% on any sales in excess of
$1800. The commission program produced a monthly sales report that gave
the total number of locks, stocks, and barrels sold, the salesperson’s total
dollar sales, and, finally, the commission.

Software Testing: A Craftsman’s Approach, 4th Edition Chapter 2 Examples

 The Simple ATM (SATM) System

• Deliberately simple (only 15 screens)

• Very familiar example
• Full description in text

Software Testing: A Craftsman’s Approach, 4th Edition Chapter 2 Examples

 The Simple ATM (SATM) Terminal

Software Testing: A Craftsman’s Approach, 4th Edition Chapter 2 Examples

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 The Currency Converter
The currency conversion program is another event-driven program that
emphasizes code associated with a graphical user interface (GUI).

Currency Converter
U.S. Dollar amount
Equivalent in ...

Brazil
Compute
Canada
Clear
European community
Quit
Japan

Software Testing: A Craftsman’s Approach, 4th Edition Chapter 2 Examples

 The Saturn Windshield Wiper Controller

The windshield wiper on some Saturn automobiles is controlled by a

lever with a dial. The lever has four positions, OFF, INT (for intermittent),
LOW, and HIGH, and the dial has three positions, numbered simply 1, 2,
and 3. The dial positions indicate three intermittent speeds, and the dial
position is relevant only when the lever is at the INT position. The
decision table below shows the windshield wiper speeds (in wipes per
minute) for the lever and dial positions.

c1. Lever OFF INT INT INT LOW HIGH

c2. Dial n/a 1 2 3 n/a n/a

a1. Wiper 0 4 6 12 30 60
speed is…

Software Testing: A Craftsman’s Approach, 4th Edition Chapter 2 Examples

 The Garage Door Controller
• This is an example for Systems of Systems
• Constituent systems
– a drive motor
– a drive chain
– the garage door wheel tracksensors
– a lamp
– an electronic controller
• Communication devices
– wireless keypad (usually in an automobile)
– a digit keypad on the outside of the garage door
– a wall-mounted button.
• Safety features
– a light beam near the floor
– an obstacle sensor

Software Testing: A Craftsman’s Approach, 4th Edition Chapter 2 Examples

 The Garage Door Controller
(shown here as a SysML Context Diagram)

Software Testing: A Craftsman’s Approach, 4th Edition Chapter 2 Examples

Other documents randomly have
different content
Helmore, after a moment's pause, sent a man back with news of the
discovery to his commanding officer, who instantly grasped the
requirements of the situation. He issued certain rapid orders, and a
hundred men darted down the hill in prompt obedience. Meanwhile,
the relief sappers, guided by Helmore, crept through the narrow
tunnel into which an opening had been forced by the explosion.
Without losing an instant, the Engineers began to chisel several
holes in the exposed section of the concrete wall. A charge of
dynamite was passed along, and all made ready. The men rushed
back and waited. The crack and crash of a violent explosion
followed, and the sappers, hurrying forward, followed by other
troops, found that a broad gap had been made in the gallery of the
caponiere. Through this breach they crept and crawled, to find
themselves in the first of the five cells, or gallery-sections, that have
been described.
Opposite to them was the arched doorway leading into the next
chamber. But already the defending force had occupied it.
Foreseeing that the entire gallery might be rushed chamber by
chamber, they had brought heavy sandbags and piled them high,
close to the first doorway.
Against these obstacles the attacking party hurled themselves,
furiously but in vain. Half a dozen engineers immediately
commenced to break through the wall itself, in the hope of thus
reaching the adjoining chamber. Only a few men could work in so
confined a space, and while they hacked against the solid wall, the
German defenders now thrust their rifles between the gaps of the
sandbags and fired at random. Four Englishmen fell dead, or
desperately wounded. Their comrades dragged them back, making
room for others. The Colonel's orders had now been carried out, and
hand grenades were passed along from man to man. These fearful
engines of destruction were only to be used in case of dire
extremity; because, closed within these walls, beneath the hill, the
explosives might well prove as fatal to the men who used them as to
the enemy. For the same reasons, doubtless, the German soldiers
engaged in this subterranean struggle, so far, had made no use of
bombs.
The sappers having found it hopeless to cut a wider entrance
through the wall into the adjoining chamber, another plan was
quickly thought of and attempted. A can of kerosene was passed
along and poured upon the sandbags; then another and another.
The moment a light was applied, the soaked sandbags began to
burn with so fierce a flame that the soldiers on each side were
driven back, and for a brief space the chambers on both sides of the
archway were left quite tenantless. Then, with a half stifled cheer, a
dozen British soldiers, their rifles clubbed, dashed across the
chamber and thrust the burning mass into the inner cell. The
Germans in the opposite entry already were hastily piling more
sandbags in position, but the gap was not wholly filled when the
attacking party rushed upon them impetuously and with an excited
shout. Bayonets crossed bayonets now, but neither side could get
free play either for attack or for defence. Over the waist-high
sandbags in this second archway, the combatants with desperate
fury thrust and stabbed. Groans and savage oaths blended with the
flash of steel. The place grew slippery with blood. Men fell and could
not rise again. Comrade trod comrade under foot and heeded not.
Only one lanthorn now remained alight, half revealing the intent and
savage faces of the combatants. The Germans seemed to have no
light at all. And poor Helmore, who held the solitary lanthorn aloft to
guide his men, thus helped to direct the fatal thrust that laid him
low. With a hoarse cry, one of the Germans had hurled a bayonet
through the doorway. It pierced deep into the lieutenant's throat.
The lanthorn dropped from his upraised hand, and he fell against the
wall. Blood gushed in a torrent from his mouth, even while he
bravely strove to utter the last word of command:
"Forward, men, forward!" he gasped, then spoke no more.
A young soldier who heard him had marked well the position of the
archway, ere darkness hid it, and, maddened at the fall of his officer,
he hurled a hand grenade towards the opening. The effect was
instantaneous and terrific. The dreadful shock was succeeded by a
still more dreadful silence.
When a light was struck it was seen that every German in the inner
chamber had been blown to pieces.
A moment's hesitation in face of the ghastly sight, then, as the light
went out again, the British sprang into the inner cell to find, or
rather feel, that it was splashed and smeared with blood and
clogged with spongy fragments of the mutilated dead.
Cell number two, by some freak of the explosive, had not been
affected, and as the third chamber thus was gained, a sergeant,
shouting in the darkness, gave the eager word:
"Forward again! we'll have the Fort! By God, we'll have the Fort!"
Again the men pressed forward, but this time no defenders barred
the way. In the distance there was a sound of hurrying footsteps.
The Germans had retreated down the stone stair which led to the
steel door of communication.
Reinforcements had now reached the gallery, and fresh lights were
brought. Well might the newcomers shudder and turn sick at what
those lights revealed in chamber number three. At the moment it
was quite impossible to carry the dead and wounded to the rear.
Officers and men were swarming in, and none could leave the
gallery. But word was passed along for surgeons to be sent, and the
wounded were laid against the walls, leaving a clear gangway. Then
the advance was cautiously continued.
Another officer—Carlow, who had just obtained his company—now
took command. Promptly but slowly, he headed the advance, for this
silence, this sudden cessation of resistance, might betoken some
deadly ambuscade.
The men went forward, two and two. Chambers four and five proved
to be quite deserted. They reached the farther archway of cell
number five, and there Carlow, halting, peered down into the
darkness of the narrow stair.
As he stood, gazing, listening, strange and pungent fumes crept up
between the walls. He gasped for breath and staggered back. The
men behind him did the same. The fumes were rising, spreading—
permeating the low gallery with extraordinary rapidity, travelling
swiftly into every chamber. Only a few understood how this awful
sense of suffocation was occasioned; and some who guessed that
from an air-pump down below the Germans were pumping
asphyxiating gas into the gallery guessed it too late. A few, before
the gas had wholly overpowered them, fought their way back to the
open, but more than a hundred men dropped where they stood in
the close chambers—dropped and died.

CHAPTER XVI.
SIGNS AND WONDERS.
That important person, Miss Flossie Wardlaw, was extremely angry!
Events were interfering with her plan of life, and upsetting all her
theories of fitness. The preoccupation, the infatuation, shown by the
only other member of her family for something outside domestic life
was too exasperating. That tiresome fort at Dover was absorbing all
her father's thoughts. He grew paler and more haggard day by day,
bestowing less and less attention on the far more important interests
that concerned his little daughter and the familiar programme of her
daily life.
Flossie told herself that she was not unreasonable. She had been
quite ready to make allowances. Alarming things, she knew, had
happened close at hand. Impudent foreigners had seized Fort
Warden by stealth. The ceaseless boom of the big guns disturbed
the current of existence in the bungalow. Things were tiresome;
indeed, quite worrying when they kept on like that! It was dreadful,
that Englishmen, her father's soldier-friends, should be killed by
foreigners—killed in England too, only ten miles away; usually they
were only killed a long way off, and that seemed different. But, of
course, it could only end in one way; the offenders would be turned
out and most severely punished. Meanwhile, the repeated and
prolonged absence of her father at Dover, and his preoccupied
behaviour when he was at home, filled Flossie with mixed feelings of
annoyance and sympathy, in which the former ingredient became
more and more predominant. Her queenly power seemed to be
undermined. Her faithful subject had deserted her. Oh! that horrid
Fort!
Miss Flossie nursed the personal sense of injury, and husbanded her
growing grievance, to the exclusion of thoughts concerning the
national questions that arose. So much depends upon the point of
view; and that, in turn, so much depends upon one's age.
Nevertheless, the issues of the struggle at Fort Warden were vitally
important. They riveted the attention of many millions of the
population of the world. Here in England itself the seizure of the fort
had assumed a colossal significance, shaking the nation out of the
ever-narrowing grooves of Parliamentary and municipal party
conflict, compelling men to look back to a great history and forward
to an era of littleness that gave pause even to the most selfish and
complacent.
Cost what it might, the enemy must be driven out. Our Flag must
wave above that fort again.
A spreading feeling of fury and resentment arose against the
Government. To this complexion had we come! Pushing politicians,
self-seeking wire-pullers of both sexes, had dragged England in the
dust. So much for Petticoat Government! So much for the
Amazonian craze, this make-believe of women-soldiers and girl-
gunners. Woman had largely ousted man from place and power, and
this was the result! A handful of foreigners had been emboldened to
assail us on our own sacred soil. Popular anger expressed itself
afresh by breaking out viciously into the old doggerel:—
 "Old Nick and the Cat,
With Johnnie and Jan,
Have brought poor England
Under a ban!"
Truly, Man was needed at the helm to which at this crisis woman
clung so obstinately. Man was wanted in his old authority, and,
behold! in every department of control woman was clinging to his
coat-tails, hindering his action, dividing his counsels, prating of
peace when there could be no peace, and exhibiting a rudimentary
unfitness to grapple with an unprecedented and desperate situation.
The outcry came not from the men alone, but with increasing
vehemence from the very sex that had struggled for supremacy.
Women out of office—necessarily the vast majority—now began to
discover that those aggressive or more fortunate representatives of
their sex who had obtained salaried posts or prominence of some
sort in public life, were in many cases frauds and failures. This rule
of woman that had come to pass was not what the great mass of
her sex had contemplated or intended. They confessed it to
husbands and brothers; and husbands and brothers nodded in wise
and ready acquiescence. Their faces plainly said: "I told you so."
Thousands of women ruefully admitted the impeachment. Successful
rivalry—mostly vicarious—had brought them no real joy. They had
gained power and lost love; and in their inmost hearts they knew
that love was worth the world. Always it had been part of woman's
character to strive for her own way, and always she had ended by
despising the man who permitted her to gain it. Yes! woman's
collective triumph in this new age, as she now sadly realised, had
cost her dear. With the gradual abandonment of man's protective
affection had gone the true ingredients of her happiness; much that
made up the grace and joy of life, tenderness and chivalry, caressing
mastery, the rightful dominance of the stronger sex. Yes! love was
worth the world.
The heel of woman disclosed her weakness—and revealed her
strength. Fool and blind! grasping at the sceptre she had lost the
kingdom; the kingdom of the heart, encircled and protected by the
strong arms of a lover as the guardian-sea encircles England's
shores. Like an electric spark this spirit of regret and discontent flew
through the land. A little more, and it would mean a revolution.
Away with the unnatural dominion of Woman! Back to the reign of
Man!
It would have been idle to expect unanimity where pride and
personal interest were so closely involved. The pushing leaders of
social democracy and the Vice-President and her following were not
likely to submit without a struggle to the restoration of hereditary
authority. Woman in office and power throughout the State would be
sure to cling desperately to her foothold, and no one could yet
foresee the outcome of the swiftly dawning struggle.
The hands of a little band of energetic men, however, were busy
throwing wide the floodgates, and no two men were more active
than those veterans, one of the army, and the other of the law—
General Hartwell and Sir Robert Herrick. To them it seemed that the
signs of the times were full of deep significance, and pregnant with
the highest hopes. They knew that there were still some men with
grit in England, men who saw with bitter wrath the pass to which
the nation had been brought. In their eyes the governance of this
once glorious land had become a byword and a mockery. And it was
because of this that the present humiliating spectacle was to be
seen at Dover.
Nor was that all. In the midst of these alarms, there was something
else that shook and terrified the people, filling the minds of
thousands with forebodings and distress.
Strange symptoms of seismic disturbance had been reported not
only from Bath, but also from other parts of England. Such awe-
inspiring tremblings of the solid earth must ever produce a sense of
apprehension which at any moment may grow into a universal panic.
It was noticed that, so far, these disquieting indications were
confined to the neighbourhood of thermal waters. At Matlock,
Harrogate, Leamington, and Woodhall Spa, there had been a marked
increase in the volume of the rising waters, with other signs of an
abnormal earth activity.
What did these things betoken? Signs of the times, they were
variously interpreted. As in the days of Noah! The great multitude of
men and women laughed at the shipbuilder and went about the
business of their daily lives, so now hosts of dull and unimaginative
persons remained unmoved in their obtuse philosophy. Others there
were who believed a providential influence was at work—conveying
an admonition and a warning by some such solemn signs as those
predicted to occur before the last great change of all. Were there not
to be signs in the heavens, and signs in the quaking earth, the sea
and the waves roaring, nation rising against nation, creation,
animate and inanimate, preparing for the awful Armageddon
foreshadowed in the page of Holy Writ?
Events were moving fast. A fanatic named Richards, stalking wild-
eyed through the land, broke out into fierce prophetic utterance,
mocked and jeered at by many, but followed by rapidly increasing
numbers. This strange man entered on a pilgrimage from one to the
other of the inland watering places, where symptoms of earthquake
had been felt, everywhere inspiring awe and wonder in breasts of
thousands. In South London, which he first visited, he was followed
by enormous crowds, consisting to a great extent of women. Here,
on the Surrey side, there had been a corresponding departure from
the normal, for the old forgotten Spa of Bermondsey had developed
a new and disturbing energy. While this ancient spring rose in
unexampled quantities, and at high temperature, the once famous
Spa at Epsom, only some twenty miles away, exhibited a like activity.
The argument was irresistible that such far-spread manifestations of
the same character must necessarily spring from a common cause.
If so, then these mysterious subterranean workings also pointed to
the pending evolution of some common result; it might take the
shape of some terrific upheaval and convulsion that would reduce
the British Isles to their primeval form, submerge them in the sea, or
even change the face of Western Europe.
Still these were but dark shadows and dread potentialities. Time
alone could show whether events would verify such grim
forebodings. But, meanwhile, there was one concrete and absorbing
fact—the presence in England of the invading foreigner. This, at
least, was a stern reality, pressing and predominant. The terrible
Three Hundred still held the Fort; the great guns still roared and
boomed, the pom-poms worked incessantly. Stiffened forms in
increasing numbers strewed Castle Hill; the numbers of the dead
and dying mounted daily.
The highest military authorities now were constantly engaged in
vehement and anxious conference with Major Wardlaw. The
discussions, renewed again and again, early and late, had dealt with
all aspects of the existing problem, had touched on and passed by
many suggested expedients. One project, in particular, had excited
much difference of opinion. Urgent advice had been given officially
and through the newspapers to call the air-ships into play. Fort
Warden, turtle-roofed, was supposed to be entirely bomb-proof, but
it was argued that if all the air-ships in England—some 200—were to
concentrate above the Fort and pour down bombs and explosives in
great quantities, the result could hardly fail to terrify, if not to
annihilate, the obstinate defenders. But Edgar Wardlaw shook his
head. He alone knew the enormous resisting power that he had built
up against this very contingency of warfare.
Moreover, there were the obligations of treaties to be remembered.
Air-ships were not to be used in warfare. International compacts on
the subject of aerial navigation must be respected. To set a
dishonourable example by disregarding them for our own immediate
purpose might lead to disastrous international results. Two, and
more than two, could play at such a game as that!
And even, while the idea was being mooted, its immediate adoption
became impossible. In a single night every English air-ship, the
whereabouts of which was known, sustained mysterious, and, in
most cases, irreparable damage. Such a discovery could not be
concealed from the public. It was clear that some great and
elaborate conspiracy was afoot, that the agents of the enemy were
numerous, active, and daring, here in the very heart of England. It
was clear, too, that the Government had been caught napping, and
only too probable that worse surprises might yet befall the country.
The police, it is true, made several arrests of suspected persons, but
prevention, not cure, was the national desideratum. While the grass
grew the steed might starve. Of what avail the slow formalities of
legal, investigation, the jog-trot of red-tape routine, when the enemy
was already at the gate, aye, in the heart of the citadel?
In this crisis it transpired that the Bladud was the only air-ship
unaccounted for. There were conflicting statements about her recent
movements; but presently it became known that she had been lent
by the late President to a young Canadian friend named Linton
Herrick. Mr. Herrick had been seen to go up with Wilton, the
Engineer, and it was believed that subsequently the Bladud had been
identified with an air-ship that had been seen travelling rapidly, and
at a considerable altitude, over the English Channel.

CHAPTER XVII.
HOW THE RAID FAILED.
Flossie had spoken. Silent resentment, obdurately nursed for quite
two days, had given place to voluble reproaches. He was naughty,
she told her father; never before had she known him quite so
naughty. Why! he had hardly opened his lips for days and days; he
had not taken her out, nor brought things home, or done anything.
Waking that morning very early and very hungry, she had found
nothing—not a thing—under her pillow—no, not even a lump of
sugar; and he knew perfectly well that there were always lumps of
sugar in the sideboard. No! he had forgotten. He did not love her,
that was quite clear. His head was fuller than ever of that horrid
Fort. If he did not look out he would go there and get killed himself
presently, and that would be a nice thing to happen, wouldn't it?
Under the shower of these reproaches, Major Wardlaw hung his
head. His silence and submissiveness slightly mollified the stern
young lady. Like many others of her sex, Flossie must needs scold
and then be sorry for the object of her reproaches. To-night there
was something in her father's looks and bearing that arrested her
vehemence. Why! goodness gracious! what was the matter?
"You know," she said shrewdly, looking at him as she stood between
his knees with that steady gaze of youthful eyes that is often so
disconcerting, "You know, if you weren't a great big man, I should
say you were going to cry."
"Nonsense, nonsense," her father answered, and hugged her closely
in his arms.
"Mind my hair," said Flossie sharply, "I'm very tired and I'm going to
bed. I hope you won't be naughty any more. Promise!" He nodded
with a queer look in his eyes. "You look tired, too! come up early. To-
morrow we'll be just the same as ever, won't we? You shall be very
nice, and I shall forgive you, because, after all, I do love you, don't
I?"
"That's right," he said gravely.
"Yes, but you're not right. I've never seen you quite like this. I'm
sure there's something. Where's my book?"
He picked up the story-book and she tucked it under her arm,
smothering a yawn that suffused her blue eyes and showed all her
pretty teeth.
"Good-night; be good," she said, and kissed him.
"Yes! But you've forgotten your hymn."
The child looked at him searchingly. His manner puzzled her more
and more. His voice seemed hardly natural; he was grave, intensely
grave, yet trying to cloak his seriousness by speaking in ordinary
tones.
"Must I, to-night?" she asked, half closing her sleepy eyes.
"Yes, dearest, please, to-night."
She glanced down at the story-book under her arm, and her father
understood the look. Flossie wanted to reserve her few mental
energies to finish a chapter in bed. But with a little sigh of
resignation, she began in drowsy tones the recitation of the hymn.
The theme was resignation. Wardlaw seemed to hang upon the well-
known words:
"If Thou shouldst call me to resign
What most I prize, it ne'er was mine;
I only yield Thee what is Thine;
Thy Will be done."
He bowed his head.
Flossie, too heavy-eyed to notice, turned away. Her father looked up
quickly.
"Kiss me again, darling."
He held her by the arms in front of him, firmly but lightly.
The child roused herself to sudden alertness.
"One for you, and one for me, and one for both together. That's
three!" she observed after the third kiss—"Just for a treat."
His eyes followed her as she crossed the room. At the door, she
turned and nodded warningly.
"Something nice to-night, mind, and don't stay up too late."
Wardlaw held his breath and kept his seat while Flossie went slowly,
languidly, up the stairs. Then, with clenched hands and tortured
eyes, he started to his feet.
The last time! God in heaven, could it be truly that?
Never to know the kiss of her childish lips again, never to feel her
warm, clinging little arms around his neck!
With bloodshot eyes and still clenched hands he paced the room.
Away in the distance the booming guns broke out again with their
dreadful monotone, recalled inexorably the work he had to do. He
had weighed it well, pondered it, as he told himself, too long already.
The Fort must fall! All other means had failed. Blood had been
poured out like water, and to no purpose. Yonder on the hill,
thousands of men, obedient unto death, his brothers in arms, had
braved the weapons which he, Wardlaw, had stored within those
impregnable defences, weapons which had been turned against his
own country and his own people with such terrible results. England
could not wait while the foreigners were starved into surrender. The
Fort must fall without delay. He, Wardlaw, knew the master-key of
the position, and also knew that he who used it must be prepared to
lose his life. Why had he not used it before?
There were reasons which would satisfy reasonable people: the
surprise of the situation, the slowness of the military authorities in
inviting his assistance, the probability that, finding themselves
without support in a hostile country, the invaders would throw up
the sponge. But none of these probabilities had been verified. The
Fort was still held by the foreigner; and the Fort must fall!
Edgar Wardlaw was a scientific soldier—not one of those men of
bull-dog courage who, obedient to orders, would hurl themselves
without thought into a bloody struggle. The mind that can devise
and perfect death-dealing armaments is not necessarily, or even
probably, a mind that inspires and braces the fighting quality of the
every-day soldier. The red badge of courage can indeed be won by
men of high-strung nerves and delicate organisation, but it is won at
most tremendous cost. Wardlaw had been slow in coming to his
resolution, but he would never recede from it. They were arms of
love that had enchained him, at the last—the arms of a little child.
But now he was breaking even those fond links asunder. He was
ready—almost ready.
Pacing the room, he glanced at his watch. It was nearly ten o'clock.
Soon she would be asleep. He went over to the sideboard and made
a quick yet careful search, finding a small fancy cake, some fruit,
and sugar; as Flossie had said, there was always sugar, though other
things might fail.
He must delay no longer. Carefully and on tiptoe he went up the
creaking stairs. The servants were chattering and laughing in the
kitchen, but in the child's bedroom there was not a sound. He
entered cautiously. Yes, she was asleep, long lashes resting on the
delicately flushed skin, lips slightly parted, one arm thrown out upon
her open book.
Wardlaw moved cautiously across the room and stood looking down
upon the sleeping child. He looked long, and who shall say with
what poignant and unutterable agony of spirit. Then he slipped the
paper bag containing what he had brought with him under the
pillow, and gently moved the book, lest it should fall upon the floor
and wake her. The volume contained two stories, bound up together
—"Sintram and his Companions," and "Aslauga's Knight," stories
whose leaves come out of the old Saga-land, bringing with them the
romance and adventure that charm the children, while also they
reveal to older folk the mystic conflict of the human soul. Sintram's
Companions, as Wardlaw knew, were Sin and Death, Companions of
us all. With Death by his side, Sintram had to ride amid the terrors
of the narrow mountain gorge—just as the Pilgrim of the immortal
Progress had journeyed through the Valley of the Shadow.
His eyes rested on the open page of the story-book:—
"When Death is coming near,
When thy heart shrinks in fear
And thy limbs fail,

Then raise thy hands and pray

To Him who smoothes the way
Through the dark vale."
He bowed his head and closed the book quietly, placing it near the
child's pillow. Downstairs the clock chimed a quarter after ten—
cheery little chimes, ticking off the flight of time as if endless days
and years still remained for all who heard them.
And yet for him who listened only a few hours of life remained.
Death called him—not in the heat and excitement of battle, but in
this still hour of cool blood and calm reflection. It made it vastly
harder to obey.
Never again would he hear those familiar tinkling chimes. This was
his last farewell to all that he held dear. Death coldly beckoned him,
as Sintram was beckoned at the entrance of the gorge. His hour had
come to pass into the Shadow. The stern implacable demand of duty
was ringing in his soul, and he dared gaze no longer on his sleeping
child. If she should wake and look into his eyes, courage, honour,
duty, all that makes man obedient unto death, might fail him even
now. He dared not press his lips upon her cheek; he dared not even
touch her hand.
She stirred and muttered something in her sleep. He quickly raised
and kissed a few strands of her lovely hair; it was the last touch, the
final leave-taking!
The father turned away. The child slept on.

A hundred yards from the bungalow—appointed to stay there, so

that Flossie should not hear and wonder—a motor-car awaited him.
The chauffeur belonged to his own corps—the Engineers. The man
saluted him and looked anxiously at the drawn—white face, on
which the lamp-light fell. Not a word was spoken. Wardlaw took his
seat, and immediately the car, like a sentient thing let loose, sped
swiftly on the road to Dover.
It was a night of starshine and soft breezes. As they climbed the
rising ground, the pure air from the sea grew stronger. Bracing,
health-giving, breathing life, it fanned the face of the silent man who
was rushing towards his self-appointed doom. Stiff and rigid, he sat,
staring into the night, but conscious of nothing around him or before
him. All his thoughts were of what was left behind—the dainty
bedroom with the shaded light, the rosy sleeping child, the delicate
dimpled face that he should see no more, his one ewe lamb of all
the world.
"If Thou shouldst call me to resign...."
The burden of the hymn was ringing in his brain, insistent,
agonizing.
On and on sped the car. Away to the South the flashlights were
sweeping the Channel, and, ahead, the first outlying lights of Dover
soon came into view. Every moment the dull, dogged voices of the
guns grew louder.
Still Wardlaw remained rigid and voiceless, as one who is paralyzed
by some dreadful nightmare, while ding-dong in his mind the words
of the hymn persisted and repeated: "If Thou shouldst call me to
resign.... If Thou shouldst call me to resign." ...
They were close to Dover now. The car sped down from the heights.
Ahead of them on the hard white road a lanthorn was swinging to
and fro, and the chauffeur slackened speed to answer the challenge
of the guard. He gave the password, and again the car tore forward.
Houses on either side now were numerous. Presently the car wound
down into the town. Silent, half-ruined, the unlighted streets gave an
inexpressible impression of melancholy and disaster. Here and there
the vibration caused by the passing car brought down loosened
stone and brickwork with a sudden clatter. At one spot some
fragments of mortar flew out and struck Wardlaw in the face. They
pricked him into consciousness. He shook himself and gave a brief
order to the chauffeur. The car turned down a side street, and
presently drew up before a large house standing in the shelter of the
Castle Hill.
There were lights in all the windows; shadows passed and repassed
across the drawn blinds. A strained air of animation and activity
pervaded the place. A group of orderlies stood about the entrance,
and through the open doorway there were glimpses of officers
hurrying from room to room with clank of spur and rattle of
accoutrement. This house, the head-quarters of the military staff,
contained for the time being the brain of the British Army—foiled, so
far, but still feverishly bent on devising means for the expulsion of
the obstinate invader.
As the car stopped, a tall officer hurried out and grasped Wardlaw by
the hand. It was a grasp that told more than words could utter—a
grasp that recognized the arrival of a supreme moment, at once the
grip of friendship and the clasp of greeting and farewell.
"The General's expecting you. I'll take you to him at once!"
Wardlaw nodded, and, still as one that dreamed, followed the aide-
de-camp into the house.

On the following day great news was wired throughout the length
and breadth of England, and cabled far and wide throughout the
civilised world.
The newspapers of London and the provinces, in eager competition,
issued special editions in quick succession. Everywhere great
placards announced in heavy type and infinite variety of colours, a
gladdening fact: the Fort had fallen!
The hero of the hour was Major Wardlaw, but no sound of joy or
triumph could ever reach his ears—Wardlaw was dead. The
published particulars, though brief, were all-sufficient and
convincing. The Major had calmly and deliberately laid down his life
for his country and his comrades. What shot and shell and bayonet
had failed to do, he, single-handed, had achieved. The episode was
all the more tragic and impressive by reason of its great simplicity. A
method was known to Major Wardlaw, as the designer, by which he
could flood the Fort. The enemy would be drowned like so many rats
in a gigantic trap. The master-key was in his hands, and though—
high honour be to them—there were other volunteers for the fatal
work, he had steadfastly refused to let another British soldier lose
his life in that prolonged and dreadful struggle. He was prepared,
resolved, to die—and death had come to him.
Single-handed he had gone into the heart of the hill. The furious
inrush of the water stored in the reservoir, which his own hand had
deliberately let loose, claimed him, as he knew it must, first victim of
the overwhelming flood.
But the Fort was ours again! It was a counter-stroke with which the
enemy had not reckoned; a danger which the invader was wholly
unable to avert. As the waters of the Red Sea overwhelmed the
Egyptian Warriors; as that ancient river, the river Kishon swept away
the foes of the armies of Israel, so, in a new and terrible way, the
water floods had destroyed the invaders of England.
With a dull, elemental roar, with a suddenness that allowed of no
flight, and a force that admitted of no resistance, ton after ton of
water poured into the interior of the Fort. The sealed fate of its
occupants was almost instantaneous. Of the survivors barely twenty
men escaped with their lives, and these immediately fell into the
hands of the encircling troops, and became prisoners of war.

CHAPTER XVIII.
THE WRECK OF THE AIR-SHIP.
The little island of Herm possessed only one building of importance,
a monastery of French refugees. In the great walled-in courtyard,
there was present an object of special and curious interest to the
monks. The arrival of the Bladud had been observed with
astonishment by all the inmates of the monastery, who naturally
associated its coming with that of a certain mysterious visitor—a
sun-scorched, iron-grey emaciated man—who had recently landed
on the island, coming, it was said, from the coast of France. The
visitor, who remained in complete seclusion in the building,
sedulously nursed back to health and strength, was treated with
extraordinary deference and respect by the Superior. That much the
monks could not fail to know; but any sly inquiries and surmises on
their part were met with the sternest and most peremptory
discouragement.
Excitement was quickened, therefore, when, only a few hours after
the arrival of the air-ship, preparations were made for the
distinguished visitor's departure. Linton stood in the courtyard,
glancing anxiously at his watch, while Wilton, the engineer, put some
finishing touches to the gear. The little man had proved himself a
model of discretion. He asked no questions, but now and then threw
quick glances towards the tall, thin stranger, who, at a respectful
sign from Linton, had taken his seat in the stern of the boat.
Whether Wilton knew or suspected the identity of Wilson Renshaw,
who now calmly waited for the voyage to commence, Linton could
not tell. He suspected that he did, and, little guessing what a few
hours would bring forth, he registered a mental promise that the
silent, faithful little engineer should not go unrewarded. It struck him
that there was a good deal of nervousness in Wilton's manner, as he
threw upward glances at the sky.
While the preparations were being completed, the Superior of the
Order stood close at hand, addressing in subdued tones his
deferential and earnest farewells to Mr. Renshaw, and Herrick,
raising his eyes, saw the peering faces of at least a score of monks
at the upper windows of the monastery. Glancing higher still, he
noted with some uneasiness that the scurrying clouds, copper-tinged
from the setting sun, betokened the coming of a wild and stormy
night. Fervently he breathed a prayer that the aerial voyage might
have a happy issue. But by this time he knew enough of air-ships to
be aware that there were perils which no scientific inventions, and
no precautions, can wholly nullify: risks from defects and mishaps
with machinery, dangers from both combined, that at any moment
might bring about some irreparable catastrophe. Yet, to-night,
everything must be hazarded. Not an hour, not a moment must be
lost. The time had come. To let it pass unseized would be to miss
the tide at the flood, to sacrifice the touchstone of fortune.
He glanced at Wilton:
"Ready?"
The engineer gave a quick nod and lifted a grimy finger towards his
cap. Linton, raising his own cap, turned towards the illustrious
passenger:
"Shall we start, sir?"
"At once, please," was the answer.
Linton stepped aboard and grasped the helm. Wilton took his place
forward, and the Superior, bowing obsequiously, moved to a safe
distance from the aeroplane.
The faint preliminary throbbing of the engine instantly commenced.
The boat began to rise, slowly at first, then more rapidly, as the
elevating power obtained freer play. Every window of the monastery
now was plastered with wondering, eager faces, intent on the
Bladud as she soared aloft. The Superior made angry and imperious
gestures, but the monks did not, or pretended not to, see. This
mounting of the aeroplane with such a passenger must not be
missed. It was a spectacle the like of which they would not see
again.
Higher and higher climbed the Bladud, beating the air with her
flapping wings. The cold breeze rushed through the wind-harp on
the mast with a sighing, mournful sound as the boat swept in swiftly
widening circles through the air. The passenger, impressed but not
perturbed, glanced sharply round him; then, feeling the growing
keenness of the wind, he drew his fur coat across his chest.
When they were high enough, Herrick, with one eye on the
compass, put the tiller over and gave an order. Wilton lightly moved
a switch, and immediately the Bladud headed at high speed for the
open sea.

As the hours passed, night fell dark and thick about them; the wind
became more violent, and ever and again chilly, sleety squalls
affected to some extent the equilibrium of the boat. No one spoke,
except for an occasional query from Herrick, to which Wilton
responded by act or gesture only.
Not one of the three men on board knew of any definite cause for
anxiety, yet in the minds of at least two of them there was a growing
sense of tension and disquietude. The muscles of Wilton's face
twitched as he sat in silence, his eye watchful and his hand ready.
Yet, so far, all went well. To avoid prolonged dangers of the open
channel, they tacked northwards towards the coast of France,
intending to resume the sea course as nearly as possible above the
Straits of Dover. Nearer land the air grew less cloudy. The twinkling
lights of habitations far below became visible like distant glow-
worms. From the numbers of these lights they could form an idea of
the size of the towns and villages over which they passed. Some
thirty-five were counted. Presently the silent passenger himself
identified the locality and said that they were passing over the
highlands between Cape Blanc and Calais.
It was time to give the ship a different course; and once again below
them lay the wide expanse of sombre, tossing sea. But the Bladud
now encountered the strength of a growing gale from the North-
East, and soon it became apparent that she was being dangerously
deflected from her proper course. It was a discovery silently made,
but fraught with the fears of potential disaster. If they should be
blown out to sea, there was but one ultimate certainty—death for all
on board. The store of motive power could only last for a given
number of hours, and already much of the power had been
expended. Their hope must lie in reaching dry ground within a
period that grew perilously shorter and shorter even while they
thought of it.
Entrusting the helm for a moment to the passenger, Herrick crawled
forward, and while the rising gale shrieked above them and around
them, held a hasty, whispered conversation with the now excited
engineer.
"We'll never do it, sir, we'll never do it," Wilton said, hoarsely. "St.
Margaret's Bay; Why, see! we've left it far behind already. No landing
there to-night. What's the best air-ship that ever was built against a
wind like this?"
"Land us anywhere, anywhere," was Herrick's vehement answer.
"Yes, if we can," muttered Wilton, gloomily. "I'm afeard there's
something wrong with her, and that's the truth, Mr. Herrick."
"Good God!" exclaimed Herrick, with an anxious glance towards the
figure in the stern.
"See that?" gasped the engineer, as a strong gust from the north
drove the bow of the boat farther sea-ward. "See that, sir? I tell you,
she can't stand it."
Again and again the same thing happened. The gale, so far as it was
easterly, drove them westward along the coastline, and ever and
again the fierce gusts from the north forced them away from it.
Linton crept back to the stern. Thirty minutes passed—minutes of
increasing suspense. At the end of that time they had lost their
bearings. The Bladud became more and more beyond control.
"Is there danger?" Renshaw asked the question very softly.
"I am afraid there is, sir," said Linton.
The other nodded: "I thought so. What part of the coast is that
down there?" he asked after an interval.
Linton peering over, pondered a minute before he answered:
"Dover's left far behind by this time. We've passed Hastings. Those
must be the lights of Brighton."
"We can't get down?"
"Impossible at present. We must drive straight ahead. Inside the Isle
of Wight there'll be a chance for us—more shelter and more ships.
Wilton knows that part."
"Can we last as long?"
"I think so—I hope so."
A long silence fell as the Bladud battled with the wind. Then there
came a startling, rending sound that indicated some defect in the
machinery. The boat began to veer erratically.
"Steady, sir, steady," roared Wilton, making a trumpet of his hands.
"For God's sake head her north!"
From below there rose a sullen, surging sound, the threatening
monotone of angry waves breaking upon a rocky shore.
The sound grew fainter. They must be travelling inland—across the
Isle of Wight. Now, then, was the time for a descent. Dimly in the
forepart of the boat, Wilton's bent form could be discerned, his face
peering, his hands at work in the complex box of the Bladud's
machinery. Suddenly he threw himself back, sitting on his heels, and
Herrick thought he saw his hands raised with a gesture of despair.
The Bladud lurched and swayed violently, and for a moment it
seemed as if the gyroscope had wholly failed to act. If that were so,
in a moment the boat might lose her equilibrium, and all would end.
But that was not the trouble. Linton now realised that it was the
lowering apparatus that would not work. The Bladud still rushed
madly forward. With unchecked speed, they flew across the island.
Another coast line then came into view—the long low line of lights
stretching from Portsmouth, across Southsea to Eastney and Fort
Cumberland. There was hope, then, or if not ground for hope, at
least a fighting chance!
But the Bladud now by some inexplicable perversity of the
machinery made obstinately for the eastern extremity of the line of
lights. That, again, might serve if only they could descend on the
wide common of Hayling Island. They were nearing it every
moment. Presently from below there rose a new menace, an angry
sound—grating and monotonous, that Linton could not understand.
"What's that?" he shouted.
"The Woolseners," bellowed Wilton, in reply, and made a wild
gesture with his disengaged hand. He knew the deadly peril—those
shifting banks of shingle churned in the shallows by the ceaseless
action of the tides and waves. The Woolseners were as fatal as the
Goodwin Sands to every ship or boat that found herself among
them.
With a desperate effort, aided by Renshaw and directed by Wilton,
Herrick forced over the helm. Another ominous crack reached their
ears, but for the moment they were successful, and a sudden squall
from the east aided their combined efforts. They now were heading
straight for Portsmouth Harbour. All might yet be well!
Still travelling at great speed, they traversed nearly half the distance,
it now being Wilton's design to bring the Bladud down on Southsea
Common. Then, suddenly, the horizontal movement of the boat
absolutely ceased. All the motive power that was left in her began
through some terrible mishap to be expended in the development of
rapid elevation. The frantic efforts of Wilton to check the upward
rush were unavailing, the boat went up and up with terrible velocity.
This last catastrophe was paralyzing, overwhelming. Climbing higher
and higher, the boat would rapidly exhaust her small remaining store
of compressed air. Then, in an instant, would commence a reversal,
and the Bladud would rush down through space—the end for all on
board, inevitable death.
Linton again left the helm in Renshaw's hands. It was useless to
retain it. He scrambled forward to assist Wilton in his desperate
efforts to right the machinery. A dreadful feeling of sickness began
to overpower him as the air-ship swayed and waltzed in the upper
air-currents, lurching and righting as if struck by successive waves,
but ever mounting higher and yet higher.
It grew intensely cold. Feathery flakes of snow began to envelop
them. Their lungs laboured. It became more and more difficult to
breathe. Linton gasped enquiries which either Wilton did not hear or
could not answer. He glanced back at their ill-starred passenger, who
had set out to recover power and a great position and now was
rushing to an awful death. He saw that Renshaw's head rolled limply
on his shoulders. Already he seemed to be insensible. Filled with
terror and alarm, he shouted to Wilton though the man was close to
hand, but his voice, though the effort of utterance was so great,
sounded even to himself quite faint and far away.
By the light of the protected spirit lamp fixed to the tiny engine
house, Linton saw that the recording instrument already registered
an altitude of 20,000 feet.
A dull indifference began to take possession of his mind. His faculties
were slowly freezing. Even his eyesight now began to fail. He could
scarcely see the column of mercury in the glass, or the minute hand
of his watch. He felt that consciousness would soon completely
desert him. His right hand was resting on the gunwale of the boat;
he found he could not raise it. He could scarcely move his lower
limbs, and, turning once more to glance at the barometer, his head
fell forward helplessly.
By a violent exercise of his muscles and his will, he raised his face a
little, but for an instant only. It drooped again. He slid down into the
bottom of the boat. His fading gaze sought that of Wilton. They
looked into each other's eyes, like dying men bidding one another
silent, sad farewells. The mists of death already seemed to be
closing on them, when a sudden variation of the temperature, or, it
may be, some magnetic current partially revived them. But the
Bladud still rushed upward, ever upward. They had reached a height
of four miles above the earth, and the temperature had fallen to 24°
below freezing point of water. To this appalling altitude the Bladud
had ascended with almost incredible rapidity.
Upward, and upward still, they went, until five miles, then six, was
reached above the surface of the vanished earth.
Out of the void a muffled voice reached Linton's ears, the welcome
voice of a living fellow-creature. It was Wilton trying to rouse him,
Wilton speaking with urgency and vehemence.
Gradually he came out of his swoon; familiar objects close to him
revealed themselves again. Wilton was lying in the bottom of the
boat. He was striving in vain to reach Linton. The piercing cold had
almost paralyzed him. His hands were freezing.
What did Wilton want? What was he trying to do?
As far as could be judged, they had now reached an altitude of
37,000 feet—nearly seven miles. The mists closed in again. The
thread of life was on the point of breaking. Linton became half
conscious that a thick crust of ice had formed upon his clothes, his
breath was freezing on his lips and in his nostrils. He glanced again
with an agonizing effort at the moving record of their elevation.
Another 1,000 feet, and then 2,000 feet. Needles of ice were
pricking at his eyes. Close to him the prone form of Wilton seemed
to be covered with minute crystals from head to foot. Linton tried to
stretch out his hands to touch him, but found that they were
helpless, numbed. What, he vaguely wondered, was Wilton doing
now? What mad idea was this? With an exhausting effort the
engineer had just smashed the lens of his telescope. Then his hands
seemed again to fail him.
Watching him helplessly, Linton felt that everything was useless,
hopeless, lost. It would soon be over.
But Wilton had gripped the broken glass of the telescope between
his teeth. What was he doing now? Why was he sawing frantically,
convulsively, at that tightened cord?
Ah! that was it! Well done, Wilton. But it was hopeless, quite
hopeless, after all. Linton rolled his head feebly. They had climbed
another 1,000 feet, and they were mounting still.
No! What was this? There was a change. Something had happened.
Linton was sensible of a strange eddying, a pause, a feebler flapping
of the aeroplanes.
Merciful God! The boat had ceased to rise. Now she was sinking,
sinking, with appalling speed, yet checked to some extent by the
broad aeroplanes, just as a bird would be when, with extended
wings, it floated down to earth.
He tried to frame some words; tried to touch Wilton with his hand;
failed to do either. Wilton lay motionless, with bleeding lips.

Out of the blur of mental chaos, Linton Herrick found himself roughly
dragged back to consciousness. Kneeling in the boat, he discovered
that he was submerged in water to the waist; flecks of salt water
smote him in the face; all around there was a welter of wild, tossing
waves.
In his ears, to add to his distraction, there sounded a harsh and
melancholy bell. It was tolling, tolling, close at hand.
The Bladud, water-logged, tossed feebly in the trough of the angry
sea. Built on a theory that she could float for a considerable period,
it nevertheless rushed in upon Linton's mind that in a few minutes
she would sink. He struggled to his feet, grasping the rigging as he
did so. Something arrested his attention. What was that silent log-
like thing the waves were rolling yonder in the semi-darkness? It
must be Wilton, poor Wilton, who had saved their lives—or tried to
save them, only to lose his own. Wilton! Dead!
A voice hailed him. It came from Renshaw, his companion. He also
was on his feet, swaying from side to side as the boat, settling
deeper and deeper in the water, plunged and lurched beneath them.
"Look!" cried Renshaw, "the buoy! We must swim for it!"
As he spoke he plunged over the side and struck out for a towering
object that rose and fell in the waves only a few yards away. Linton
realised that that was where the clangour of the bell was coming
from—the refuge of the shipwrecked—the bell-buoy close at hand!
Before he fully knew what he was about, he, too, was struggling in
the waves. He was a strong swimmer, but, clogged with his wet
clothing, another yard or two would have been too much for him. He
shouted some incoherent words of encouragement to Renshaw, and
struck out with all his small remaining strength. The tall frame-work
of the Spit-buoy rose out of the sea just in front of him. From its
apex came louder than ever the noise of the iron clapper beating on
the metal, as the tossing sea roiled the huge buoy this way and that.
His hand touched something hard.
He grasped an iron rail. Slowly and laboriously he drew his dripping
form out of the sea. Then, panting heavily, he threw himself down
face downward, full length, on the deck of the buoy, and stretched
out both hands to the other swimmer. Renshaw's strength seemed
well nigh spent. He was making futile struggles to rid himself of his
heavy coat. As he rolled over helplessly, almost swept beneath the
buoy, Linton grasped his collar.
The next moment he had drawn him to the rail. A breathing space,
and then another effort, exhausting and prolonged.
Two panting men, half drowned but saved, lay side by side upon the
buoy, fenced from the greedy sea by rusty, dripping iron bars. Above
them, in the stormy mournful night, ding dong! the bell kept
clanging to and fro—this way and that, with every wave and motion
of the singing sea.
 CHAPTER XIX.
THE COUP D'ÉTAT.
While the fierce struggle for Fort Warden was proceeding, and while
Nicholas Jardine lay dying, the Vice-President of the Council and her
adherents were engaged in desperate efforts to strengthen the grip
of Woman on the governance of England. To wrest to their own
advantage the crisis that would arise on the expected death of the
President was of paramount importance to the Kellick party. To turn
it to their destruction was the anxious object of their political
opponents. Thus was foreshadowed—for the critical hour—a fierce
and crucial struggle for supremacy.
The chief directors of the counteracting movement, General
Hartwell, the woman-hater, and Sir Robert Herrick, wise in counsel
and learned in law, were in constant conference. They met daily, and
their conferences and study of reports often lasted far into the night.
The outcome of their labours was to be seen in the creation of an
association, which Linton had mentioned to Zenobia. It embodied
both men and women, who styled themselves, as a bond of union,
the Friends of the Phœnix. The general aim of this association was
to re-establish man in his proper position in the State, and the
particular aim to bring about the restoration of the long-lost leader,
Wilson Renshaw.
The last mentioned feature of the programme, though at first
received with natural incredulity, presently acted with magical effect
in quickening public interest; and when secret, but authoritative,
assurances were forthcoming that Renshaw still lived, had been
released by the Mahdi, and was about to return to England, vast
numbers speedily enrolled themselves as Friends of the Phœnix. The
great strength of the movement lay in the voluntary enlistment of
hosts of disciplined men. The Police, the regular Army, and the
Territorials, furnished many thousands of recruits.
The old Household troops followed General Hartwell almost to a
man; the Corps of Commissionaires followed suit. These men, in
turn, rendered excellent, because unsuspected, service as
propagandists among the humbler classes of the civil population.
Evidences of disgust and discontent with the aggressive dominion of
Woman were found on every side.
The time was almost ripe. It looked as if but a match were needed
to produce a vast and far-reaching conflagration; and the main
problem that exercised the minds of General Hartwell and Sir Robert
was how, when the moment came, to use the ready instruments of
revolt without incurring the risk of bloodshed and the development
of civil war. Every possible precaution was taken. The Friends of the
Phœnix pursued their plans with the utmost secrecy, it being realised
that, in order that the projected coup d'état might succeed, it was
essential that it should take the Kellick faction completely by
surprise.
Finally, it was decided to seize the occasion of a banquet in the City,
at which it was known that the Vice-President would make an
oratorical bid for a new mandate from the nation. This banquet,
postponed from time to time in consequence of events at Dover and
the President's illness, was to take place shortly after Mr. Jardine's
funeral. It was announced that reasons of State and public
convenience rendered further delay impossible; "Reasons of State"
meant the interests of the Kellick faction; "Public convenience" had
reference to the opening of a new London railway tube.
An extension of the old Tube from the Post Office, via Gresham
Street, to the Guildhall, had long been a cherished scheme of the
City Fathers. The old approach through King Street and Cheapside to
the head-quarters of the Corporation was only suitable for use in
fine weather. But whatever changes and chances had befallen
London during the first forty years of the twentieth century, British
weather had developed but little alteration, and certainly no
improvement. That State processions and civic functions should be
spoilt by drizzle, rain, or fog, as so frequently had happened to
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